


Rosettes and Reaping

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Child Death, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras never intended to volunteer as a tribute, but now he finds himself in the 74th Hunger Games. All he wants to do is survive going in, but his intentions change upon winning. Now all he wants to do is rebel.</p><p>Set from the Reaping all the way to the Revolution. It's going to be a long one kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosettes and Reaping

He touched the label of his best red jacket with careful fingers, smoothing it down to try and remove some of the numerous creases. They hadn’t the wood to spare to make a fire to heat the iron, certainly not in summer, so he had to go without. Not that it mattered much. Nobody from District Twelve would be dressed much better. 

While he resented the tradition of dressing up for the Reaping, it calmed him in a way. Gave him small details to focus on, to distract his mind, rather than the beginning of the worst time of the year. At least in District Twelve, it didn’t have the quite the same festive atmosphere as it did in other distracts. The shine sort of wore off the pageantry when year after year, there were no victors for the district, just two more bodies, two more grieving families. 

The irony was not entirely lost on Enjolras that his coat was the colour of freshly spilled blood. Or at least, it had been, back when it was new and handsome, not patched at the elbows and restitched at the seams. Compared to what District One would be wearing, it was practically rags, but here, were money was scarce and most things were the colour of dull ash and coal, it would catch the eye, even if Enjolras’ golden hair didn’t. It was unusual to be blonde here, most with dark skin and complexions. He must have taken after his mother, since he certainly didn’t look like his father, a fact he was eternally grateful for. His mother was no more than a vague, kindly memory that came to him when he was sick.   
He met his own eyes in the mirror, taking in himself. He looked even more sickly than usual, the only colour in his cheeks a red flush from the heat. They matched his lips, bitten bloody from the anxiety he told himself was irrational. The chances he would be picked were narrow. As it was only him and his father, they rarely needed to re-enter his name for grain. Compared to most living in the Seam, that counted as luxury.

He supposed he was ready, though really, he never would be. He had no reasonable excuse to stall any more, and he didn’t really want to be dragged from the shack that was his home. Once upon a time, his father used to tell him, they had lived in a house much bigger than this. They eat much better. The Peacekeepers had left them more well alone. But then Enjolras’ mother had died, the business had been lost, and everything had changed. Even himself. 

He stood back with a sigh, and adjusted his neck-tie, only worn to hide the fact his best shirt was missing a button. And finally, finally, he stepped out of the house, and into the baking sun, stepping over one of the stray cats that roamed the neighborhood. He didn’t lock the door. What was there to be stolen? Enjolras didn’t keep the animals he poached stored in his own house. He wasn’t that stupid. Peacekeepers could raid at anytime. 

There were several other kids walking towards the main plaza. Enjolras recognised every one, but he didn’t greet them. It wasn’t that sort of day. It was almost eerily silent as they shuffled, walked, trotted and dragged themselves forward. It wasn’t unusual to hear sniffling though, younger ones trying to be brave most likely. It was always hardest the first time. As he got closer, more and more people joined the pilgrimage. It was almost a tradition too, at this point, for dangerous thoughts to filter into Enjolras’ head, like smoke mixing with a breeze. There were a few hundred children all being herded onto the plaza. What would happen one year, if they simply refused to go? Refused to watch? Refused to give their drop of blood, refused to give their bodies? If all of them did so, what could happen?

And, like every year, when it was time to sign in, he handed his blood over without saying a single word. Principles were for those with power. He worried that one of the Peacemakers would one day manage to look inside his head, and see the treacherous words painted like graffiti, and execute him on the spot. He hoped he didn’t have a guilty face.   
As he made his way towards his place, someone caught his elbow. He glanced next to him, and almost smiled. Eponine. 

He wouldn’t exactly call the girl his friend, they weren’t well, friendly, enough for that. They hunted together. Enjolras gave her food when she needed it, and he could spare some. They were opposites, who happened to work extremely well together. While he was reserved, she was outspoken. While he was serious, she found mirth where he only found problems. It scared him half to death sometimes. One day, she would run her mouth too far, and she would disappear. And then what would happen to her siblings? Among her many talents, foresight was not one of them. 

“How’s Gavroche?” He inquired. While this would be Azelma’s third Reaping, it was only Gavroche’s first.   
“Oh, you know him. He’s been running about the crowd all day, trying to take bets.” Enjolras must have wrinkled his nose in disgust, because she shrugged. “Gotta make your money somehow.”  
“Yeah, but betting on who’s going to be murdered seems a little... I don’t know. Distasteful?”   
“The Capitol are making money from it. Why not us?”

With that, she waved and made her way over to the girl’s side of the crowd, while Enjolras pushed his way into his place. He was locked elbow to elbow with boys he shared his schooling with. Some were bullies, some were okay. And one of them would die. There was no jostling or playing here. Even the most jovial boys were sombre. He could see Gavroche in one of the first rows, Azelma a little futher back, near Eponine. Gavroche waved to him briefly before training his attention back on the stage, where the gigantic vidscreen, was waiting, as always. He looked a little more forced in his smile than he usually did, but nerves were a hard thing to deal with for a kid. Gavroche was rarely nervous, even less so afraid. Enjolras spent quite a lot of time with him, in general, Gavroche having a penchant for following him, and getting in his business. Enjolras may have even found it endearing. 

When the final child was accounted for, it began.

The mayor came along, making his usual dull speech about duty and penance. Enjolras didn’t even listen, choosing instead to stare across the rows of heads, and occasionally, up at the clouds drifting across the sky. It was, by all accounts, a beautiful day.

And then Montparnasse came on stage. The escort for District 12. Enjolras had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the latest outfit. At first, it didn’t look so bad, black slacks and shirt with a top hat, until you realised it wasn’t truly black. It was made up of thousands of magpie feathers, all linked together, so he shined in the light. With him came two large, glass bowls, filled with what looked like confetti. Confetti with names on. 

“Welcome ladies and gentleman. It’s the most exciting time of the year again! The Hunger Games! Now, we shall start as we always do, the film...”  
Another part of the proceedings Enjolras paid no attention to. He caught a few others in the crowd yawning too. They watched the exact same one, every fucking year. It was relentless. The words were often played at other official functions too. Enjolras suspected the words were intended to be like worms, twisting their way inside your mind, and staying there amongst the other rot. He wondered if it had actually worked on him, or because he was bored with it, it had the opposite effect. 

It finally finished, and Montparnasse wiped a theatrical tear from his eye.   
“I just love that. Now, I know you’re all dying to know who the lucky boy and girl is, so, without further ado, ladies first!” He dipped his hand in the bowl, swirling it around as if he’d lost something. He drew it out, making them hold their breath until he finally seized on a piece of paper. 

“Musichetta Everett.” Enjolras’ heart sunk just a little bit. He knew her. Much taller than him, black with most gorgeous eyes, and a tongue that was both sharp and kind by measures, she was a good person. She didn’t falter on her way to the stage, kept her head up high, looking over the crowd as if she could imagine herself somewhere better. She stood upright when she arrived there, hands clenched tight into fists.

“What a brave woman! Now, for the boys...”   
Enjolras held his breath this time as the hand entered the bowl on the opposite side, repeating the performance Montparnasse did last time, taking his time flicking through the pieces of paper. Enjolras swallowed, half-expecting his name to be announced any moment, as unlikely as it was. There was always a chance. A chance this would be his last day in his home, last day amongst friends, last day he ever saw District Twelve. 

A piece of paper was finally grabbed, and raised up. Montparnasse wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he unfolded the paper delicately, as though it was made from gold.  
“Gavroche Thenadier.” A momentary flood of relief was quickly over taken by sheer, sheer horror. Enjolras immediately whipped his head towards Eponine, just in time to hear her scream rip the air in two. She was already surging forward, a Peacemaker grabbing her roughly enough to bruise. Every noise seemed amplified, her screams, the crowd moving to try and make Gavroche move, and suddenly, Enjolras found himself pushing forward to, trying to get to the path of the stage. He heard someone calling Gavroche’s name, steadily more hysterical, and realised it was him.

This couldn’t be happening. Not Gavroche, not at his first Reaping, not when he was so good, and so clever-  
He was crying as yet another Peacekeeper seized his arm to drag him forward, and Montparnasse was trying to placate him and –  
“I volunteer!” Enjolras’ voice rang out strong and clear, echoing back off the surrounding buildings. All the noise, all the movement stopped. “I volunteer as tribute!”


End file.
